


Time After Time

by ishouldwritethatdown



Series: Post-Hephaestus Space Kids [5]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: 80's Music, Alternate Universe - Doug Remembers, Back to Earth, Ballroom Dancing, Gen, Post-Canon, Roommates, telling gender roles to go piss on a tree, the next installment in the eiffel's bad at dancing series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 01:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12924858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishouldwritethatdown/pseuds/ishouldwritethatdown
Summary: Back on Earth, there are a surprising amount of things that somehow seem more difficult than surviving on a space station that had a new chain of command every five minutes and a plant monster living in the vents. Ballroom dancing is one of those. Dancing in gravity is one thing, but dancing in gravity that isn't just thrashing your body around and making crazy air guitar faces? Eiffel's pretty sure there are military commanders less strict than all the ballroom instructors on these YouTube tutorials.





	Time After Time

The mixture of amused apprehension and utter dread that Minkowski was feeling was all too familiar. She had a rough idea of what to expect when she heard the 80s music pulsing through the door of the apartment, but she wasn’t prepared for what she saw.

Eiffel was pacing back and forth with his arms suspended in the air in a truly pitiful attempt at what she assumed was ballroom dancing to ‘Time After Time’.

When he heard the door open, he turned, first with an expression of horror and then a joyful “Ayyyyyy!” as if anyone other than her and Lovelace had a key to the apartment.

Bopping along to the music, he took Renée by the arm and dragged her into the middle of the room, tapping the door shut with his toe. He’d pushed the furniture back to clear space for his dancefloor, and his phone was in a glass on the table.

She was already laughing and shaking her head, “What the hell are you…”

He was visibly fighting a full-on grin as he fumbled with their hands to take them into something like a waltz hold. “You look stunning this evening, m’lady,” he said in his fakest and most dignified voice.

“M’lady me again and you’ll be dancing on the curb,” she warned, in her red leather jacket and combat boots.

He laughed and nodded, “Roger that.”

His long hair had been combed back into something resembling a style for once, slicked a little with gel on the top and plaited, and he was wearing his one set of smart clothes.

“Did you iron your shirt?” Minkowski asked, eyeing the lack of creases with suspicion.

“Yeah, how is it?” he grimaced.

“Well, you didn’t burn it, so a win, you’re doing this wrong,” the sentences flowed together in her mouth as she glanced at his feet and his stance and how they matched exactly with the beat of a different song. He was trying to waltz to a 4/4 tempo.

“Lead me,” he requested without protest, and they switched positions.

The ease with which he relinquished control was a refreshing change of pace, considering his history as an anarchist and the fact that a 5’2 woman was now leading a 6’3 man in a ballroom dance.

She counted out the beats to help him get the hang of it, and then asked, “So… what is this for?”

He interrupted his under-breath counting to answer, “It’s Craig-from-work’s birthday party tonight, and he loves ballroom dancing. So…”

“So you waited until the day of the party to realise you don’t know how to ballroom dance,” she finished, rolling her eyes slightly.

He grinned sheepishly, and then stepped on Renée’s toe with his nice shoes and sprung into apologies. He found his footing again and fell back into the rhythm.

“Look at that, you can follow when you need to after all,” she joked, and that same guilty smile returned.

“If you’re lost you can look  
And you will find me,  
Time after time,  
If you fall I will catch you,  
I will be waiting,  
Time after time.”

She looked carefully at Eiffel’s face has he watched his feet, mouthing the beat to himself. Here was that last-minute deadline kind of determination that fit like a glove on Eiffel’s hand. She wondered if he had panicked more about this party than any kind of formal test he had ever taken.

“Chin up,” she reminded him, and he lifted his face. He tried a couple of times to glance down without moving his head, but he couldn’t see his feet anyway, so he kept his eyes fixed forward, over Minkowski’s head. His easygoing smile had melted away as he concentrated.

He hadn’t tried to tackle his stubble, but honestly if he showed up to the party clean shaven, she doubted any of his coworkers would recognise him. She had half a mind to say that she wouldn’t herself.

“You gonna be okay for this?” she asked him carefully, and his eyes snapped down to meet hers.

He looked confused for a moment, and then the corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. “You mean the dancing, or the crushing social pressure to drink alcohol?”

“Both,” she answered, and nodded at his legs, “I don’t know what your gangly ass is doing with those, but it is not exactly Strictly Ballroom.”

He laughed, and let that settle in his chest before he replied softly, “I’ll be fine.”

“And you’ll call me if you get in any trouble,” Renée insisted, more a command than a question.

“Cross my heart and hope to fly,” he swore, breaking their hands to demonstrate as much.

“I won’t be mad. Or… well, I might be a little mad if you call me at 4am piss-drunk, but I’d rather that than…”

“I know,” he assured her, running his hands down her shoulders. The song was fading out, and they let their arms fall. “I promise. I’m not going to pull a screwdriver.”

There was something like a laugh contained in her exhale, and she nodded, trying to let go of the anxiety in her chest. She reached up and fixed his collar, although it didn’t need much fixing.

The chords of the next song on the playlist chimed in suddenly, and Eiffel laughed in recognition. He jumped onto the sofa – she would have protested, but he kept his good shoes so clean that it really didn’t matter – and started strumming the air guitar.

“Darling, you’ve got to let me know,” he mimed along with the words and pointed at Renée.

She finally put her finger on the tune just before the lyrics came in—

“Should I stay or should I go?”

She crossed her arms and shook her head, but didn’t suppress the smile on her face. “Your air guitar exposes your bad ironing skills.”

“It’s always tease, tease, tease,” he pouted, still absorbed in the song, and then laughed as he realised what she had said and peered at his shirt. “I guess I won’t be jumping up on stage with my mad performance skills, then,” he lamented.

“What a relief,” she remarked, and he made a face like she’d hurt his feelings.

“Not exactly ballroom appropriate,” he commented, fishing his phone out from the glass and pausing the music. He jumped off the sofa. “You betrayed me, YouTube Mix.”

Minkowski suddenly felt removed from the scene. Eiffel fiddled with his phone, tongue stuck out slightly, and she watched from behind a two-way mirror. He swept up his jacket from where it had been draped on the chair – it wasn’t quite as smart as the rest of his outfit, but at least it wasn’t his ‘couch potato hoodie’ – and slung it over his arm instead, not taking his eyes away from his screen the whole time.

She could see the care he’d put into ironing his shirt and how long he had wrestled with the hairs that strayed from his plait before giving up. When he shifted his weight to his left foot, she could see the gentle curves on his tummy and his thighs, replacing the sharp lines of malnutrition as he regained everything he had lost.

“I should get going,” he said, looking at the time. He cast an apologetic glance around the room. “Pillow fort when I get back?” he suggested, gesturing at the oddly arranged furniture with a smile.

He turned towards the door, patting his pockets for his keys, without looking too closely at Renée’s face. There were worries creasing it, and she struggled for a moment with her tongue.

“Doug,” she said suddenly, surprising them both. He turned and faced her properly, catching her worried look. Her mind was totally blank for what to say next, and her cheeks were heating rapidly.

The moment was filled with the static energy of a world held in suspense. She ran through all of her warnings and advice and snarky comments until finally she said--

“Have fun.” Her gaze flickered back and forth between his eyes and a dusty patch of floor that had been exposed by his light redecoration.

He nodded with a reassuring smile, eyes steady on hers, and gave her a two-fingered salute, “Sir yes sir.”


End file.
